


Resilience

by Jaybeefoxy



Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Flufftober, Flufftober prompts 2020, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pre-Relationship, You do not have permission to post to another site., You do not have permission to translate this work, discussion of suicide, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27293368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaybeefoxy/pseuds/Jaybeefoxy
Summary: Resiliencenoun1. The capacity to recover quickly from difficulties; toughness.2. The ability of a substance or object to spring back into shape; elasticity.Greg is at the end of his tether, but Mycroft is in the wings and comes to the rescue. I've been there too, although I never got bad enough want to finish things. Greg isn't really, but he does need someone. They both do. See notes for triggers.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Flufftober Prompts 2020 [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950532
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	Resilience

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit angsty as well as fluffy. Greg is on the edge of depression, exhausted by events, and we all need a rescuer at some point. I hope you get yours if you need one. 
> 
> I know this is supposed to be Flufftober, but this shoved itself into my brain and lodged there. There is fluff... but underlying it is a real message. If you are affected by these issues, seek help. Numbers in notes at the end.

Like any person of his generation and in his line of work, Greg Lestrade has been through a lot in his life; divorce, losing his parents, set-backs to promotion, loss of friends, bad cases. He is a bit of a stoic, one of those people who seem to ride the waves of upheaval and change in a pragmatic way, dealing with life’s challenges as they come. He’s had his share of damage, both mentally and physically. Every tragedy leaves a scar, some of which are invisible to the outside world. 

Greg sometimes feels like he’s a doormat that people wipe their feet on and pass by. He helps those who need it, he won’t leave someone to suffer, he’s a confident, a friend, a rescuer. He’s also felt out of place at times, or worse, dismissed as plebeian, pedestrian, working class. He’s also been put on the spot many times, expected to perform in some way, and humiliated when he fails. He’s not a fast thinker, but he is a deep one. He takes failure to heart, and wears that heart on his sleeve. He sometimes finds life less than clear. He struggles to reach conclusions on occasion, but he gets there eventually. He’s a solid, sturdy, grounded person. He has **resilience**. 

The trouble is, when he really _does_ need help, people often think he’s joking. _Greg Lestrade? Need help? Never. That guy can handle anything. What have you been drinking?_

The trouble is, when he needs someone to listen to him, people often find they don’t have time. _Greg Lestrade? What does he want to talk about? Can’t be that urgent, can it? Oh, God, probably wants to moan about his cheating wife..._

The trouble is, when he needs saving, nobody realises. _Greg Lestrade? Stoic, that one. He copes. He’ll be fine._

Sometimes, he isn’t. 

Sometimes, everything just _hurts._

Sometimes, it’s all just a bit too much. 

Which is why, when he's out in some random inner-city park at 03:00, pacing and smoking, there's definitely a good—or rather bad—reason.

**0000000**

Mycroft was woken at 2.30am by his phone. He fumbled in the dark, finding a flashing alert. _Urgent then_. His office wouldn't text him unless it was important anyway, not at that time. 

**SILVERFOX1: AMBER ALERT. Subject in St Wilfred’s Park, smoking, pacing. Seems agitated. Suggest intercept. Orders?**

Mycroft blinked, then threw off his malaise and dashed into this bathroom. Less than ten minutes and a brief text later he was dressed and heading out to the car that was already idling by the kerb. 

Five minutes after that his car was flagged down by a black-clad figure standing by the gate of a park that is at least a half hour’s walk from the Inspector’s flat. Mycroft managed to exit the car before his driver could reach the door. 

"Subject is static, sir," the black-clad figure reported. Mycroft recognised one of his own security detail. _That’s interesting._ "Hasn't left the location. Still pacing. Hanson and Evans are on overwatch." He offered Mycroft a comms unit, tuned to their frequency, invisible to anyone else observing the wearer, and watched as his boss tucked it over his ear and positioned the mic. Mycroft knew it was designed to pick up everything, including the subject's responses. 

"Remain on standby," Mycroft ordered, voice low. "Just in case medical help is required."

"Of course, sir." Mycroft watched as the man melted back into the shadows, then turned to face the gate. _What now?_ At some point, Mycroft knew that he must have been trained for this sort of situation, but at that moment he frankly couldn’t pull together any of it. This situation was most probably not one he should even be trying to deal with himself. _What if he rejects me?_ He snorted, then realised that was heard by everyone on the network. He quieted and schooled his features. _What am I thinking? How on earth do I handle the man I...respect...admire...oh, let’s face it, adore...how do I handle him having a meltdown?_ Many scenarios came to mind; therapy, drugs, hospitalization…. First of all, Mycroft knew that he would need to assess the situation and it couldn’t be done from a distance. He squared his shoulders and walked resolutely into the park, rapidly going through just how he was going to explain his presence to the Inspector. 

Greg reached for his cigarette packet to find it empty. “Bollocks!” he swore, crumpling the packet in his fist. “Bollocks! Bollocks! Bollocks!” He took a deep breath and let it go gustily. He had no idea how long he had been in the park, pacing the ground, chain smoking. He was...rudderless, aimless. Actually _exhausted_ would be a better description. He was so damn tired of everything. No one had time for him. Nobody had time to listen. Even John Watson was tied up with his daughter, and Greg didn’t feel comfortable calling him so late. John was a single parent holding down a job and caring for a child.

Sherlock hadn’t answered his texts. So far Greg had sent two to find out if he was answering, so the answer there had been a resounding no. Sally was in the Maldives on holiday so God knew what time it was there. Greg had to face the fact that he was alone. So here he was, pacing the ground in a park in the middle of nowhere at fuck o’clock in the morning, with nowhere to go and nothing to look forward to except the same daily grind of dealing with law breakers. 

He stared into the distance, wondering. He realised starkly that his life outside of work was nonexistent. Looking up into the sky, he contemplated the cold clear night. The trees around him were still in leaf but autumn was on the way. They were turning golden brown, and the cold bleak wind would soon strip them bare. Greg could identify with that. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and quietly despaired.

The next moment, the clearing of a throat behind him had Greg on high alert and he spun, astonished to see Mycroft Bloody Holmes standing not fifty yards away from him, all put together as usual. 

“Mycroft? What….?”

“Gregory. Are you quite alright?”

Greg just stared, unable to believe his eyes. “What are you doing here? It’s…” he checked his watch, “ten past three in the morning…”

“And that is why I am here. Gregory, why are you out here at ten past three on what is frankly an inhospitably cold morning, at least half an hour from your home.”

“I…” Greg’s voice failed him. He shook his head, unable to speak. He turned away, lost. “S.s.sorry…” he stuttered, stricken. 

“Gregory, for goodness’ sake,” Mycroft found himself saying gently, “there is no need to be sorry. Can you not put it into words?” He watched Greg visibly trying to pull himself together, shoulders tense with the effort. Normally so strong in the face of adversity, Mycroft found it a shock to see Greg so vulnerable. _How did I not see this coming on? Moreover, why did I not see it?_ Myroft sighed softly _._ It was no good chastising himself now. He would resolve to sort this out, to help Greg solve his situation. 

Greg tried and failed to hold it all back, but it was like a tidal wave; all the grief at the deaths of his parents, his divorce, ruthlessly thrust away onto the back boiler because he had to work, to function, to carry on, it all came rushing to overwhelm him. He found himself drowning, sinking to his knees with the crushing weight of it all. He was so damned lonely, so helpless… 

Mycroft watched Greg fold, collapse onto his knees on the cold wet grass, shoulders shaking. Then he was moving, propelling his reluctant feet into action. He grabbed the man and flung his arms around him, sinking to his own knees to provide support, to prevent Greg from completely collapsing to the ground. He held onto him, enfolded him, pressed the silvered head to his own shoulder. Greg’s hands came up and fisted almost desperately into his lapels, letting his grief go in almost silent waves of tears. He didn’t howl, he didn’t draw attention to himself. There was just this silent shaking, and the wetness soaking Mycroft’s coat. 

Greg felt the strong arms around his shoulders, holding him close, pressing his face into scratchy wool, fingers in his hair, a soft voice soothing nonsense at him. The wave of grief was unstoppable, frightening in its intensity, but he was completely helpless to prevent it. Eventually however, it lessened, loosening its grip a little. He felt a handkerchief pressed into his fingers and he fumbled to blow his nose and wipe his eyes, feeling like a snotty toddler. 

“There now,” said the voice in his ear, soft and deep and comforting. “Time to get you somewhere warm and safe, don’t you think?” 

“C.c.christ,” Greg muttered, “not yet...look at me, I’m a mess...just...let me...I dunno, pull myself together a bit...yeah?”

“Very well. Take your time, but let us at least get off the damp ground…”

“Oh. Oh, God, Myc...I am so sorry…” Greg realised Mycroft was kneeling with him, ruining his posh suit trousers.

“Stop, please, Gregory. None of that. It is fabric. It will clean, and if not, then it is not worth nearly as much as your health and sanity. Come now, up you get.” Both men stood, and Mycroft supported Greg as he swayed. “Easy now,” he murmured. “Don’t try to move before you know you won’t collapse again.”

“I’m fine...I think…” Greg stood straighter and squared his shoulders. 

“Steady. Take your time. Now, I have a car waiting. It will spirit us back to my home, you can stay the night with me. I think, under the circumstances, you should not be in work tomorrow…”

“No!” The vehemence stopped Mycroft in his tracks. “I can’t...I...I don’t want be alone…”

“Is that all?” Mycroft smiled reassuringly. “Then I shall work from home and keep you company. I think you should not be alone tonight, or perhaps any night. You are...Actually, how are you?”

“Shaky. I can walk to the car though.”

“Should I be taking you to hospital?”

The pointed question caught him off guard. “I...no, no I’m not...not going to do anything daft, just...I’m tired, and I’m sick of being alone. I’ve got no friends, nobody I talk to…”

“Then we can remedy that quite easily, but...I do think you should seek medical help. I can help with that, if you wish. Let us discuss this in private, somewhere safe though. I don’t know about you, but I could do with hot tea, and a warm fire, and bed…”

Greg watched the small encouraging smile and the rise of one elegant eyebrow, questioningly. He nodded, and fell into step with the man.

Greg avoided looking at their driver, sliding into the back seat of the car. Of the other men that Mycroft knew were around there was no visible sign. He was grateful for their discretion, and promised himself they would receive remuneration for responding to a distress call that no doubt Anthea had instigated. The private security measures that Mycroft had on Greg Lestrade would have alerted her to the unusual behaviour but it would have been she who called out the troops. That it was his own security detail had obviously agreed to go, off the books, as it were, was interesting. 

Greg was silent in the car, staring out the window until they got to Mycroft’s home. He offered no resistance, made no attempt to dash away or give excuses as to why he couldn’t stay. Mycroft left the surveillance headset in the car, knowing it would be picked up and returned, discreetly, to his team. He had no wish for Gregory to learn that all Mycroft’s team would have heard what happened. He could explain that later. In all likelihood, it had only been the small team of three operatives who had been listening in anyway. Regardless he would reassure Greg of that at the first opportunity. 

Mycroft guided his guest inside, and into the warm lounge, flicking the gas fire on to warm things through. The place was warmed by radiators anyway, but the fire’s real flames were soothing. “You must be tired,” he said, watching Greg’s response. 

“I’m sick of being tired.”

“Understandable. Are you tired a lot of the time?”

“Yeah, guess I am. Hard to get up some days.”

“Gregory...will you be honest with me?”

“Never anything else, Mycroft.”

“No, you’re not, are you?” Mycroft regarded him with a soft expression. “So, please tell me, Gregory. Tonight...Had I not come along, what would you have done?”

“If you’re fishing to find out if I would have topped myself, then the answer is no. I’m not the type, Mycroft.”

“And what type would that be?”

“Not to type to top himself, that’s what.” 

“It is sometimes not under one’s control. Depression is an illness, Gregory.”

“I do know that, Myc,” Greg replied, irritated. “Seriously. I am not...not depressed, just...I’m tired. Everything is weighing in and I’m...I’ve had enough. I don’t know what to do. I’m just…” he stopped and took a breath, emotions threatening to overwhelm him again. 

“It’s alright, Gregory. Be easy. This is not some third degree, I merely want to ascertain whether you need medical help.”

“I probably do. I mean...tried registering with a counselor through work, but honestly, it takes weeks of being on a fucking waiting list. I mean, how many poor sods are waiting for help and kill themselves before they can get any?” 

“Alas, I understand. However, I do have access to... _other_ sources. Should you wish it, I could have you in front of a professional counselor tomorrow.” 

“Jesus. What _other_ sources?”

“ _Departmental_ sources. Call it a privilege of working for the Crown. You are in a high stress occupation. You have had certain... _situations_ to deal with this year over and above your usual duties. I think it is high time we gave you some much needed care and attention.” 

Greg saw the compassion in Mycroft’s eyes and it almost undid him again. To have someone simply _care,_ when he thought nobody understood. Trust the elder Holmes to come to the rescue. 

“That’s...very kind.”

“Pish,” Mycroft murmured with a smile. “You deserve to be cared for, Gregory. I admit I had no idea how hard this year had been on you. I feel remiss that I did not act sooner, and now you are...where you are.”

“Felt like nobody cared,” Greg admitted. “Parents are dead, I’ve no other close family, neither of those two at Baker Street were answering phones of texts, and my colleagues...I’m only really close to Sally and even then there’s a line we don’t cross. Besides, she’s on holiday with her fella in the Maldives and she’s too far away. I’m on my own. Felt... _feels_ like I could drop off the face of the earth and nobody would either know, or be bothered by it.” Mycroft was looking at him strangely. “What?”

“You have no idea. Oh, Bugger it!” The profanity was so strange coming from this straight laced man, said in that posh voice, that Greg let out a bark of almost hysterical laughter. Mycroft looked rueful, embarrassed. “I care, Gregory. Probably more than is strictly acceptable….but I _do_ care. About you. In truth, I always have.” He gave Greg a bashful smile, and inhaled a nervous breath. “Circumstance never allowed me the opportunity to offer you enough of me. In my mind, were I to have made any offer, it would have needed to have been worthy of you, worthwhile enough to make that offer a valid prospect, for _both_ of us. As it was, I was never in a position to offer you a complete relationship.”

“You could have offered anyway. If you’d explained, I’d have understood. Let’s face it, we’re neither of us in jobs that keep regular hours.”

“Yes, but Gregory, that was not acceptable to _me._ I would have felt that I was taking advantage, stringing you along, as it were. That was not...not fair of me, and I really wanted to be fair to you.” Mycroft’s voice had gone soft. 

“And now?”

“Now I am facing retirement, and if you are...well, neither of us is getting any younger. Both our professions require younger people, to some extent, and perhaps we should both be looking into retiring while we are still young enough to enjoy it.”

“If I don’t have my work, Mycroft, I have nothing. It’s not...not a prospect I was looking forward to.”

“But if you had a partner to enjoy it with?” 

“Are you offering?”

“Yes.” 

For a moment, there was dead silence. Mycroft was convinced he had misstepped. Gregory was simply staring at him, obviously thinking. 

“You’ll hate it when I leave dirty laundry on the bathroom floor.”

“You’ll hate it when I tidy up your mess and you won’t be able to find anything I’ve cleared away.”

“Doubtless we’ll disagree on politics.”

“You’ll probably hate my food choices.”

“You won’t like watching footy in the pub.”

“I cannot imagine you being prepared to watch cricket in summer…”

Greg grinned. “You know what?”

“No. What?”

“We’ll compromise. Surely you’re used to that?”

“Not at all. I merely argue my point sufficiently well that the other party comes around to my point of view.” Greg laughed again, a deeper laugh this time, more controlled, but if anything, more sincere. 

“Trust you. Typical Bloody Holmes. Dunno why we love you, but…”

“You... _love me?” Impossible..._

“Besotted, Mycroft. Me and John both, it looks like.” 

“You can’t be.”

“No more ridiculous than finding out that someone cares about me.”

“Gregory, I cannot conceive of anybody not caring about you. You are…”

“What, Mycroft, what am I, really?”

“Everything I am not; charming, friendly, outgoing… You are everybody’s friend, you help people, you are compassionate and caring, attractive…”

“You find me attractive?”

“Of course.” Mycroft sounded affronted that anyone could think otherwise. It provoked another grin. “I codenamed you Silverfox1 for a reason.”

“You _codenamed_ me?”

“Yes, in case I am required to refer to you over radio to my team…”

“Why would you need to do that?”

Mycroft squared his shoulders. Admission time. “Gregory, please do not misunderstand. The reason I was...where I was tonight, I...I had you under surveillance. Admittedly light, but...nevertheless, it flagged up that you were in distress…”

“And you came to the rescue?”

“Please, do not be angry. It was simply the least I could arrange to keep you safe, especially after Sherinford. There is discreet surveillance on your house and person, nothing intrusive, just...it flags unusual behaviour, in case you were compromised because of me…” Mycroft was almost babbling in his haste to explain. “I could not have lived with myself if anything had happened to you because of your association with either myself or my brother…”

“Mycroft, stop. Myc…” Greg stepped close. “You...codenamed me _Silverfox1?_ Seriously?”Mycroft nodded. “Jesus…” Greg was fighting a smile. “Honestly, Mycroft, if that isn’t a declaration, I don’t know what is.” Greg sighed. “I should be offended that you decided to watch me without telling me…”

“I did say it was discreet. There is nothing inside your house…”

“And how did you know it wasn’t for a case?” 

“Because you would not have walked. You would have jumped in your car and driven, alone, to work, or to a rendezvous point, to a crime scene.” 

“So I was followed?”

“Only via cctv. When you began to behave oddly, then you were shadowed, but only at a distance, and my team called me. Had you been in any danger from anyone else, you would have been extracted quickly, and the threat neutralised.”

“Fuck...I don’t know what to say.”

“Out of interest, it was my own security team that volunteered to help. This is off the books, Gregory. I did not abuse work resources to enable your safety. They like you, because you are likeable. They work for me, but you...you never fail to acknowledge them when you meet me. You say hello, you ask them how they are, and you mean it. Good God, you even know their names.”

“Not hard to do, you know. You ask them.”

“Alas, something I have failed to do.” 

“Yeah, well, not like they’re laying their lives on the line or anything.” Mycroft took the gentle rebuke for what it was. 

“And that is why they like you.” He watched Greg yawn. “Heavens, you should be in bed, Gregory. Here I am lollygagging with you when you need rest. Do you require a doctor right now?”

“No, Mycroft. Look, I’m not about to scarper. Get me that appointment with someone, I know I need to get myself sorted out,” Greg said pragmatically. “I’m going to call HR tomorrow, and look at retirement. Might ask them about an early retirement package. Could be generous, they’re looking for people to make way for the youngsters.” 

“I could investigate other avenues, you know? We need people like you as trainers for our agents. You have a wealth of information to pass along, I am sure. You could keep your hand in, part time. It would give you purpose, but reduce the pressure. The most you would be required to do is assessments and lesson plans.”

Greg chuckled. “Lemme get my head straight first, but...thanks, Mycroft. Thank you, for everything.” He felt the tears prick again. 

“Nonsense. I firmly believe you do deserve help, and care, and…”

“Do we deserve each other as well?” There was that disarming grin again. Mycroft found himself melting under the warmth. 

“I am not sure either of us deserves that…” Again, that laugh. Mycroft marvelled that he could elicit that laughter. As a rule, he didn’t entertain people.

“Put it this way,” Greg ventured. “Who on earth would put up with us, if not each other?”

“True enough,” Mycroft agreed. “This is somewhat of a romance novel cliche ending, would you not agree?”

“Nope, I can’t agree there, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?”

“That’s simple, Mycroft. Because, it’s not an ending, is it? It’s a beginning.” Greg stepped close, wrapped his arms around the man in front of him and brought their lips together gently. “Let’s see where this goes,” he said, as they both melted into the other’s embrace, safe, warm, and cared for in ways neither of them had expected or hoped for. 

**Author's Note:**

> Seek help, please, if you do. The world would be worse without you in it, so please, if you are experiencing things like Greg, seek some help from your doctor, your friends, your family. The first step to healing is understanding that you need help.  
> This is in a way a tribute to Rupert's own challenges with depression. Thankfully he is still with us. Some people were not so lucky. If you are struggling, please reach out. Talk to your doctor, or call the Samaritans if you need to talk. See numbers below. 
> 
> Samaritans UK phone 24/7 for free on 116 123 or try Supportline https://www.supportline.org.uk/problems/suicide/  
> samaritans USA call 1 (800) 273-TALK  
> Samaritans Australia 135 247
> 
> Anybody has useful numbers to add, please do so in the comments.


End file.
